CHAPTER 22
“Please excuse me.” Setting aside her tea, Lydia stood and hurried after Sophie. It was strange, but something urged her to trust the girl. Madame Laurent’s huff of disdain followed her as she hastened into the gardens. No doubt she thought Lydia was on her way to a tryst with her lover, whoever she assumed that to be.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was locating the throne. She stumbled over an upturned root and slowed. She had not the faintest notion where the nutmeg trees grew. Hoping Sophie was nearby she called out, “Hello?” Her voice sounded tentative even to her own ears.
She opened her mouth to try again when a hand gripped her arm. She gasped and opened her mouth to scream before she recognized Sophie in the moonglow.
“This way, Miss.” Sophie tugged on her arm.
A sharp rebuke died on Lydia’s lips. They halted beneath a stand of trees and Sophie held her finger to her mouth. Lydia nodded and rubbed her arms. Mist pooled and puddled around them, gathering in the hollows and snagging on the tree limbs.
A voice hissed behind them and Lydia whirled round.
“C’est elle?”
Sophie nodded and gave Lydia a little push forward, and then replied in French. “She’s a good lady. Kind. I think we can trust her.”
A large African man loomed away from the shadow of the trees and Lydia wanted to hide behind Sophie. Instead she stood as straight as she could and met the searching, dark-eyed gaze.
“You’re looking for the caves?”
“Oui.” Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She rummaged through the baggage of her mind for her disused French.
“This will cause trouble.”
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience. I would not press, but it’s most important.”
“We do not want you to keep looking.”
Lydia’s stomach churned and she feared she would lose her dinner. Still she straightened and raised her chin. “Who is ‘we’?”
Sophie intervened, impatience colouring her voice. “We don’t have to fight. We can help each other.”
She drew them to a cluster of wide stumps and warily Lydia sat.
Lydia sent up a silent prayer for guidance.
Sophie reverted to English, perhaps because she could tell Lydia would be more comfortable in her own language. “This my brother Emmanuel. He and two others run away from his master near a month ago. That man is wicked cruel. He… Never mind, you don’ care ’bout that. They been hidin’ in the caves and I think I know what you after.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You help these men escape the island on your ship, I’ll tell you where it is.”
“How could you possibly—?”
Sophie shook her head impatiently. “It’s a great seat covered in jewels.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open and she closed it with a snap. “If you know where it is why not just take it for yourselves?”
Sophie looked at her as if she were a bit simple. “How a slave explain where they get jewels? We can’t eat ’em. A throne is no use to us—not unless we crown a king of slaves.”
“Of course.” Lydia held up a hand.
Sophie still eyed her as if reassessing her capability. “Hire a cart and oxen from Monsieur Poiret to carry your supplies. The throne is too big for donkeys. Tell him you have not found what you sought and you are goin’ home. I will meet you when you are away from the house and take you to the cave. But you mus’ take my brother and the others with you. No more slaves.” She turned to her brother and spoke rapidly in a language that Lydia couldn’t even guess at.
When Sophie had completed her speech, Lydia licked her lips and spoke in French. “I cannot promise. It’s not my decision to make alone.”
Emmanuel shifted restlessly and she hurried on. “I will tell the gentlemen what you’ve said. I think they will be amenable. Whatever they decide, I vow to keep your confidence. No one else will know of our meeting or what you have told me.”
Sophie and Emmanuel looked at one another for a long moment. Finally Sophie turned to Lydia. “Give me your answer tonight.”
Lydia returned to the veranda just as the men emerged from the house. She wandered over to the edge of the porch hoping to draw one of her comrades near and confide her news.
Far below in the natural cove overlooked by the plantation, a ship lay at anchor. A sickly lump settled in the pit of her stomach.
“That is not Legacy, is it?” Lydia gestured towards the ship.
“No, it can’t be Legacy. It’s too large.” Danbury joined her, squinting through the darkness. “It looks more like…” His face paled as a breeze caught the flag at her mainmast and snapped it to life. “It is a French ship of the line.”